


Turn Left for Butterfly Room

by Dasha (Dasha_mte)



Series: Folding [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10926696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha
Summary: Either Mac or Joe saw Methos at least once a day, but they almost never had to come to him. He checked in at the bar or at the dojo, not always staying long, but showing them that he was 'just fine, really.' More often, though, they all got together more formally, to 'do something.' They had been to the opera, two plays, and more museums than Joe had seen in one month since the early days of Mac and Tessa's courtship.





	Turn Left for Butterfly Room

**Author's Note:**

> I think this might be the last one in this series.  
> This was written as a gift for Martha.  
> No ownership here. No profit.

 

**Joe**

Early afternoon with the lunch crowd gone, the only occupied table was the one where Methos sat, sipping a beer and watching Joe with amused eyes. Joe glared at the phone in his hand--chattering with the tinny echo of Mac's answering machine--and managed not to curse aloud.

Never mind. He could handle this.

He hung up and went back to the table with his most mild expression. Nothing happening here. Nothing special anyway. Just a little irritated, that's all. Certainly not nervous.  "He's not home," Joe announced unnecessarily.

Methos' eyes flickered with amusement. "And he's not here."

"Thank you for that update. I hadn't noticed."

The first week Methos had stayed with MacLeod. This had, in a sideways kind of way, put a temporary stop to Joe and Mac's  private encounters. There was no reason why it should have, on the face of it.  They only really got together about twice a week anyway. Besides, when they did it was at Joe's place because, in principle, Joe would find this more convenient. In actuality, Mac hadn't seen Joe in the wheel chair yet, but none of that was the point. The point was, having a house guest at the loft didn’t in itself limit their privacy or opportunity.

What made any time alone together impossible was that they were afraid to leave Methos alone.  They couldn't quite coordinate keeping one of them with him at all times, but they came close.  For that first week he had tolerated their passing him back and forth, only occasionally making a dry comment about being babysat. After six days, though, he had declared 'enough,' and set about finding an apartment. Two days later he was out and on his own.

They had continued to hover. Either Mac or Joe saw Methos at least once a day, but they almost never had to come to him. He checked in at the bar or at the dojo, not always staying long, but showing them that he was 'just fine, really.'  More often, though, they all got together more formally, to 'do something.' They had been to the opera, two plays, and more museums than Joe had seen in one month since the early days of Mac and Tessa's courtship.

Through it all Methos gave no sign of the irritation and depression he'd shown that first day. Although his mood had bounced around a bit, in general, he was pleasant. He was calm. He was agreeable. He was kind. At first, both of the babysitters had taken this as a bad sign, but if it was mask, it was a damn good one. In nearly a month no sign of the gaping pain had resurfaced. Even Joe, who had seen a great deal more of the burdens Methos was carrying than MacLeod, had to admit that things might be ok. Maybe all the old guy had needed was a little catharsis and a little comforting. Or maybe what he needed was a place in the world, people who knew him and welcomed him.

But Joe was worried enough to read up on the psychology of older immortals. Of course, the sample Watcher psychologists had for 'older immortals' was mostly people from fifteen to twenty-two hundred. There weren’t many out there over three thousand; hardly anybody made it that far. And most of the tiny sample that the Watchers had was useless for studying psychology. Nobody had taken the kinds of notes psychologists could really use until about nineteen-ten.

Today they were meeting at the bar. Today was going to be a little different, although they had not told Methos that. Today was _special_. And MacLeod was late.

Methos' amusement was growing more pronounced by the moment. "Yep. I'd have to say you have definitely been stood up."  He shook his head in mock sympathy.

"He's not that la--"

"So what do you think? Can you handle me on your own?" He smiled sweetly and rested his chin on his hand.

Joe was hard pressed not to laugh. And slug him. "You are," he said levelly, "the biggest pain in the ass I have ever met."

Methos smiled and muttered something to his beer that might have been "Not yet." Joe closed his eyes.

There had been no discussions as to if they would move on Methos together, only when and how. These had been short discussions, snatched in the brief moments they'd had out of their friend's hearing. _When_ had been the hardest decision; not so soon that he felt pressured while he was still emotionally vulnerable, not so late that he felt excluded and unloved.  They had agonized. And plotted. And worked out the perfect approach.

Of course, the old man had seen through everything. He had seen, somehow, what was coming and that today was the day. He was chortling into his beer at Joe's discomfort and anxiety.

"This is all a big joke to you? You think this is funny? You bastard--you utterly self-centered, obnoxious, cold hearted son of a bitch. Well, I'm _sorry_ this is all so far beneath you." 

To Joe's utter astonishment, a flash of devastation passed over Methos' face like the turning of a page. Then he smiled slightly and sat back. "You're very good. You're wasted on the Watchers, in fact. You should go into acting."

"Really? You think?"

"Oh definitely."

"Why thank you."  He had had him. For just a moment, but he'd had him. And in that moment, Joe had seen enough to be sure that they were doing the right thing. God, but it was hard work, though. Keeping Mr. Been Everywhere, Seen Everything interested was exhausting.

"So what's the plan for today?"

"Oh, no. You're going to play it our way--and you're going to play nice."

Methos was back to chortling. "Assuming MacLeod ever gets here."

At that moment the door opened and Mac raced in, trying not to look flustered or in a hurry and failing terribly. "Sorry I'm late!" He glanced around, and finding them alone, greeted them both with a hand on the shoulder.

"Mr. Sunshine here has figured us out," Joe said.

MacLeod shrugged. "Calculated risk. You kids ready?"

Methos finished his beer. "Where are we going?"

MacLeod smiled triumphantly. "The arboretum."

"Right. The arboretum. It's the only place we haven't been."

Mac laughed. "Oh, no. There are lots of places we haven't been." He made it sound like a threat. Joe did some pointed chortling of his own.

**MacLeod**

Seacouver's Barrow Arboretum was small, but lush, with tightly curling paths that made it seem bigger than it was. It was divided into sections, the first desert, although no desert Duncan had ever seen had cactus nose-to-nose this way. Methos walked ahead of them facing backward, pointing out plants that could be used for food if you were in need...and pointing out ones that could be used to make poisons. Duncan didn't understand the point of that last, unless it was to frighten them. Why, though, he couldn't guess....

He'd be a fool to try to guess. Five thousand years old. It could be anything. Methos himself seemed to be afraid a good bit of the time, but it was like no fear Duncan had ever seen before. And surely, if he felt the need to protect himself, it wouldn't be from the likes of Duncan and Joe?

The easy, playful camaraderie they'd had those last few months in Paris was gone. Methos was quieter now. Angrier. Shorter of temper. And perhaps, to some extent, Duncan was making a bigger deal out of this than he should. Methos had enjoyed irritating and teasing Duncan in Paris, and he was still clearly enjoying that here....or at least still _doing_ it, if not enjoying it.

Watching Methos gesture at a small, flowering succulent, he felt a tiny stab of fear himself. Graceful, beautiful, perfect, lovely--except Duncan knew perfectly well that Methos was _not_ lovely. It was only tenderness that made it seem so. _Dear god, I am besotted_ , he thought.

The story about the flower was beginning to look as though it would go on for a while.  Duncan sat on a nearby bench and held out a hand for Joe to join him. Duncan had discovered early in these little outings that if he wasn't careful, Joe would be sorry later. It seemed a habit of thought too old to break by now: Joe would never admit that he couldn't keep up with Duncan MacLeod. For too many years his job had depended on not complaining and not being left behind. Duncan had very quickly learned to pay attention.

At some point, Methos' lecture had moved on to yucca soap.  He met Duncan's eyes with contained amusement, and Duncan realized they were being played with; a game to see how long they would let him go on.

Duncan smiled back. Methos could talk as long has he liked. For one thing, the sound of his voice was pleasant, nearly musical, sexy in fact-- _besotted fool, he thought_ \--and for another, the mission for today was to enjoy themselves. They weren't in a hurry.

Methos moved on to cactus root systems.

"When were you a botanist?" Joe asked suddenly, apparently not noticing the game and talking the words seriously.

"I was never one professionally. I was an environmental agitator in the late sixties, though." He frowned, "I took it very seriously. Did scads of research. Sent letters. Made those little signs." He shuddered.

The next section was deciduous forest. Methos behaved himself until he scooped up a small, grey lizard that was basking on the path and held it out for his companions to examine. The lizard, undamaged, sat quietly in Methos' hand. Duncan wondered how he managed it.

At a fork in the road, Duncan led his compainions out a side door, and not around the bend to the rainforest section.   "Here," he said. Beyond two plastic curtains was a narrow room filled with flowers. It was open to the air, but screened in on all sides and above.

"MacLeod, the flowers are moving--" Methos started.  "Oh. Well."

Duncan smiled. "The sign said 'Butterfly Room.'"

"Well, yes, but I thought--" Methos stopped, blinking at the array of butterflies swarming around them. "My," he said after a moment.

There was a dispenser by the door. Duncan held Methos' hand under it and trickled some watermelon juice on his fingers.  Two of the butterflies landed at once. 

"There's one on your head," Joe said softly.  "You, um, you _told_ me, Mac. But I admit I wasn't ready."

Pursued by butterflies himself, Duncan smeared some nectar on the back of Joe's hand. The air was suddenly too warm.  If they had been alone, they would have kissed then, but although they had missed the groups from day-care and summer camp, there was still a young mother with two toddlers feeding the butterflies not ten feet away. Duncan stepped back.

Methos held a small yellow butterfly in his hand. It was not the most spectacular creature in the room by far, but he stared with rapt attention. "Are you all right?" Duncan asked.

"A long time ago...there was a prosperous horse farm.  On the post road, just at the edge of the woods...during the summer the butterflies would come to drink the horses' sweat.  Thousands of them. Smaller than this, but brighter.  So many of them you would have thought it was snowing yellow."

 _Who were you, on that horse farm_? Duncan thought. _Who did you love there?_

He looked up, then, and smiled. "You have outdone yourself," but while the words were polite and distancing, the smile was affectionate and fearless.

Duncan leaned forward and kissed him. It was a test. He promised himself that if Methos said _no, thank you,_ they would go out to dinner together and that would be the end of it. Duncan wouldn't press anymore, not when he wasn't sure his friend was solidly and safely in the world--

Methos leaned forward. Duncan was only aware of pressure and warmth and sweetness. Such sweetness. Like a butterfly, he drank.  The hand that cradled the back of his neck was slightly sticky--

"Sorry," Methos murmured as they pulled away.  His eyes were still smiling. Duncan laughed.

"That's a yes, then," Methos said. "In case I wasn't clear."

"So I gathered," Duncan managed. He forced himself to step back. He could hear voices--another family--and if this continued they would be all over each other in a few moments. Methos smiled and then wandered down the path toward another cluster of butterflies hovering over a patch of red flowers.

Duncan retreated to the bench Joe had found and was greeted by a blue butterfly which landed on his sticky left hand and Joe, who gently took his right. "Are you sure you want me there tonight?"

He took a deep breath. He hoped he was handling this well.  "I do want him alone," he whispered. "And I'm sure he wants you alone. But not tonight." He tried to look reassuring. It was hard to do while feeling this nervous. The first time he'd had two partners at once, he'd been seduced by Amanda and Rebecca. They'd made it look easy. For them, it had _been_ easy. They'd known each other perfectly. They'd had trust and experience. They'd been together, off and on, for about eight hundred years. And while they had loved each other deeply, _he_ had simply been a pretty boy they'd met in the market. In those days, he was nothing to them. Easy.

Here, now--Joe and Methos were hardly nothing. They were both central to his present life.  Actually, they were among the best friends he had anywhere still alive.  The stakes were very high, but none of them had the kind of certainty and trust with one another that Rebecca and Amanda had had.

Oh, Duncan really did not want to mess this up!

"Joe, you know we...Immortals have no family except the people who choose to love us--" Duncan stopped, unsure how to go on. How could he explain it to Joe, who was so firmly ensnared in this life? He was tied to his country, to his family, to the Watchers in ways that Duncan had not been tied for over three hundred years. How could Joe, unwillingly but unbreakably bound to that butcher Horton, really know how horrible it was sometimes, to be bound to no one?  "Tonight is about family. It's the dearest gift we could give him. I don't...know if he wants it. He might not. But he'll understand. It will mean a great deal. To him and to me. Ok?"

"Yeah, ok. God help me."

**Methos**

Dinner started with pasta, which Duncan had made himself, by hand. It turned out that the reason he had been late picking them up wasn't that he'd met with a challenge on the way (yes, apparently the man could cross town without someone trying for his head) but that the first batch had come out sticky and unusable, and he'd had to start over. He blamed Joe's kitchen, which was three times the size of his own, but, apparently, was too humid.

Methos managed not to smile.

The pasta was followed by broiled lamb, a new-world squash, and some kind of potato casserole. The wine was excellent. So was the bread.  The main course was followed by cheese and fruit and then Mac shooed them into the living room, promising to be right behind them.

"Mac, leave it," Joe urged. "I'll get it in the morning."

"No, no. Really. There's just one more thing," he protested. Methos smiled. It was a joy to watch the man work. Truly. Duncan MacLeod was a master at this game. And it had been a very long time since Methos had been courted and charmed and wooed so sweetly.  Decades. Ouch. More than that, even.

Joe, following just behind him, poked Methos in the shoulder with a stiff thumb. "I can hear you smirking," he hissed. "Mac has bent over backwards to make tonight special. You play nice or I'll take your head myself."

Methos turned back with his most innocent look.

"Yeah, yeah. I am not fooled, old man. I've played poker with you."

They were barely settled in Joe's uncluttered living room when MacLeod returned with a tray bearing little dishes of ice cream. Vanilla ice cream, with a sweet, delicate aroma--

Methos glanced at Joe who was doing his own innocent act.  Mac hadn't known about Methos' deep affection for vanilla ice cream, and Joe had. No doubt this would be very good ice cream, too.

And then he tasted it, and it exceeded all expectations. Cold and silky and light on his tongue, it made him slightly giddy. "Don't tell me you made this, too?" he managed.

MacLeod shrugged. "There's a deli on Rose St. that makes it on site. Why? Do you like it?"

As calmly as he could, Methos reached out and set the bowl on the coffee table. As calmly as he could, he sat back and folded his trembling hands in his lap. It took a moment to raise his eyes. When he did, they were looking back at him. He hadn't managed casual, then. It had been too much to hope for anyway.

Joe set his own ice cream down and came around to sit beside Methos in the couch. He covered Methos' cold hands with his own, slightly sweaty ones. "Listen," he whispered gently. "There's no pressure, right? You don't have to do anything you don’t want to do."

It was all he could do not to laugh at that. Joe thought he was afraid? Of what? It wasn't as if they could force him. Even as strong as they both were, they were no threat. Even if they had wished to be. In fact, they had been dancing around this for weeks, unwilling to take advantage of someone who was emotionally vulnerable, unable to see that while, yes, he hadn't been himself for the last few months, sex was only sex, and it posed no danger to whatever his 'delicate' frame of mind might be.

No, it wasn't the prospect of passion that undid him. It was their kindness, their affection. Methos looked at the forlorn ice cream dish on the table. The last time he had hired himself out he'd made enough in one evening to run a medium-sized household for three days. Now, it seemed, he could be bought heart and soul for a dish of ice cream.

He could be bought heart and soul for the look in Joe's eyes as he leaned in and whispered, "Frankly, if you want to cut and run, I'd be relieved. I'm scared to death here."

"Is my reputation that bad?"

"Buddy, your reputation pairs you with two of the three most highly rated lovers in the records, and that's only counting the Immortals. And the people we know about. There is no way in hell I'm going to measure up."

Joe was being honest about the fear, if not the desire to escape. _Oh, my friend_ , Methos thought. "You've got it backwards, you know. For every perfect, magical evening there have been two or three dozen disasters. You cannot possibly be bad enough to even get close to the bottom of the list." He patted Joe's head. "Take heart. Whatever else happens, be comforted by the fact that there's almost no chance I'll be having nightmares about tonight for years to come."

Joe began to laugh. "Oh, my god! And the worst part is that actually _helped_." He only stopped laughing when Methos kissed him.

Caught, Joe's mouth was soft and animate, cool from ice cream, sweet.... It always amazed Methos a little. No matter how many countless wonderful kisses there had been, the kissing itself didn't loose any of its magic. This first kiss might be the first kiss ever, it so shook the world. A warmth grew in his belly, spreading up into his throat and down into his groin. Joe made a tiny, hungry noise and cradled Methos' face--

Panting, Methos pulled away. This would be better tonight if he showed some control now, but--oh--it was hard. He glanced up. MacLeod was watching with proprietary approval.

Joe retrieved Methos' ice cream from the table and silently offered a small spoonful. Methos shivered. To eat from another man's hand was to make a promise he still couldn't take lightly, even six hundred years away from the herding camps where such gestures had meaning. Joe was ignorant and guileless. He was only playing. When Methos opened his mouth for the ice cream he made the promise anyway; himself as their ally until dawn, even if it required his life. Once he had made this promise and lied. He could not even pretend to do that now.

Well, hell, he thought as the taste of vanilla spread in his mouth. They were probably stuck with him for much longer than that anyway. 

He dipped his small finger into the dish. The ice cream was slick and searingly cold. He turned his hand and offered up the finger. Joe took it gently, teeth just lightly sliding along flesh. Methos could not breathe. He could barely think. Weakly, he tore himself away. "Not here," he ground out, shutting his eyes and trying to breathe. "Not here. Not on the couch with Duncan way over there."

Fumbling for Methos' hand, Joe said, "Right. Right. Bedroom...."

With his eyes closed he couldn't see MacLeod move, but he heard him coming. Warm hands on his shoulders, a brush of cheek against cheek. There was a moment of silence. Fuzzily, Methos realized he was being given a chance to change his mind.

Never.

The bedroom showed signs of careful preparation. The lighting was low and indirect. The sheets had been turned back. And they looked to have been ironed, which had been out of fashion for thirty years at least....Methos was being wooed by a boy scout troop. It should have struck him as funny, but it didn't.

Possibly because MacLeod was moving up behind him, sliding an arm around his waist, gently nuzzling his shoulder.  The arms around him were strong, the body pressed against him warm and solid. Methos turned in the circle of those arms and kissed him.

Unlike the shy, hurried experiment in the butterfly garden, this kiss was slow and thorough. It was as marvelous as Methos had imagined it would be. Questing hands slid under his shirt, breaking the kiss just long enough to strip it off. At once, those questing hands were back, this time stroking his cooling skin.

"Not fair, not fair," Methos muttered, tugging at buttons.

"Life is unfair," MacLeod nibbled his neck.

Methos grunted and ripped the front of the shirt open. "Much better."

"I liked that shirt," MacLeod laughed.

"Attachment is the source of suffering," Methos told him.

Strong hands bore him backward until he felt the bed behind him. He was greeted by another pair of hands, guiding him back and down until he was sitting. "My god, you're beautiful," Joe whispered in his ear. And then, even more softly, "Mac, thank you. I might never have known. I might have gone my whole life not knowing...."

The hands on his skin were a spreading fire. Desire rose like an urgent thirst. He pushed it down. _Slowly_ , he thought. Slowly. He would not lose this moment too quickly.  He was already pressing painfully against the trap of his jeans, though, and his head spun with ideas. One handed, he found the clip holding MacLeod's hair. Free, it came down in a tickling mass that smelled like the butterfly garden.

There was no thought after that, just a brightness of hands and lips and broad, strong shoulders. What little coherence Methos possessed spent itself on slowing his partners down. Joe was nervous and anxious to _accomplish_ something. MacLeod, well, apparently he had such a quick recovery that he'd only bothered to learn the most basic techniques.  Both of them would have sped through the best parts if Methos had let them.

He didn't. You couldn't hold onto anything forever, but sometimes you could manage a moment or two more. He stretched it out, letting them play, turning them aside when anyone got too close.

In the end it was his own hunger that undid them all. Duncan was arching under him, drenched in sweat, panting, so utterly beautiful that when the moment came to stop, Methos didn't have the strength to pull back.

When Duncan climaxed, Joe and Methos fell like dominos right behind him. Swept along in an avalanche of pleasure, he couldn't stop himself from yelling, only dimly aware that his wasn't the only voice...

It was a long time before anyone moved. Joe looked up first. He blinked for a moment at the dim room, then rolled to the edge of the bed where he turned off the light and snared a pillow. MacLeod followed him and they curled together in thoughtless habit.

Cold, Methos sat up and pulled one of the blankets up around him. The concealment of darkness was a relief, even as the swelling pressure of that darkness was a burden.

There was snoring, and with Joe gone, MacLeod said softly, "That wasn't necessary. You didn't have anything to prove."

Confused, but not surprised, Methos answered, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"We weren't expecting you to perform. We were with our friend, not the Amazing Five Thousand Year Old Man. You didn't have anything to prove."

 _Blessed Heavens, you are an idiot_ , Methos thought, as the burden of the darkness expanded into a pain. "I wasn't trying to prove anything," he said, knowing he would regret the words later and not caring, "I was trying to delay this."

"This....what?"

" _This_. This silence, this emptiness. You and your ridiculous ideas. Me and--"

There was a short silence, but before Methos could quite make up his mind to leave, MacLeod said kindly, "There must have been a lot of silence with Alexa."

Cruelly, because no reasonable request would get MacLeod to keep his kindness to himself, Methos answered, "Actually, there wasn't a lot of passion with Alexa. Not after the first couple of months. So I got to skip out on a lot of the post-coital slump."

"Methos, don't do this. Come here. It doesn't have to be silent or empty afterward. You're not alone tonight."  MacLeod held out his free arm. "Please. I always say the wrong thing to you. I never understand. I--"

"Stop apologizing!" Methos squirmed around so that he was lying on the free shoulder.

"But I'm adorable when I apologize."

Methos laughed faintly. The shoulder under his cheek was too hard to make a comfortable pillow, but so solid and warm....

"Pull up the blanket, will you? It's cold."

Methos sat up long enough to flip the blanket over the three of them.  When he lay back down, MacLeod's strong arm curled around him and pulled him closer.

"I'm right here," MacLeod whispered, his breath warm across Methos' cheek. "I'll talk, if you want."

"Let's quit while we're ahead."

MacLeod sighed with exaggerated patience at that, but let it go. After a few minutes, Methos realized that he meant to go to sleep like this. MacLeod was going to _sleep_ while pinned down on both sides. It was an extraordinary expression of trust. It was also really stupid, not at all the kind of habit an Immortal could keep for very long and survive. But sweet.

They would have to have a talk about it in the morning.

**Joe**

Joe woke in darkness and tried to guess the time. It had been after midnight before anyone had gotten to sleep, but there wasn't any light around the window, so they couldn't have slept more than a few hours or so. He wondered, lazily, about gently detaching himself from Duncan and slipping off to the bathroom, or just going back to sleep, when the shifting bed told him that Methos had beat him to it.

He didn't head to the bathroom, though. He retrieved a blanket from the foot of the bed and slipped quietly into the hall.

Well.

Joe waited. Several minutes passed, with no sound and no return.  Something was definitely wrong. Maybe. The question was, was the better solution to ignore it or _do_ something.

Ignoring it was the more tempting answer. And if Methos hadn't wanted privacy, he would have woken them up. And besides, he'd been around. He could handle it.

Aw, _damn_....

If he was going to do something, _now_ \--and not five or ten minutes from now when he had thought everything out or he'd put his legs on and dressed--was when he should do it. If Methos was doing a runner (unlikely, since he hadn't stopped to gather his clothes, but you never knew) waiting was definitely out. Even if he was just on another of the big freak-outs, sooner was probably better than later. Assuming Joe could do anything to help at all.

Prodded by his growing anxiety, Joe slipped free of Mac, transferred to the wheel chair, and snagged a semi-clean flannel shirt from the hamper. As quietly as possible, he went searching for Methos.

He found him in the kitchen. It wasn't hard; the lights were blazing. He was loading the dish washer.  Naked.

"You have got to be kidding!" Joe said.

"Have I given you a reason to believe I would be such a poor house guest?"  Methos asked mildly, rinsing out the pasta pot.

Joe though about what Methos had shown him that evening. Methos had done things Duncan had never even mentioned. He had done things Joe had only heard of as part of particularly rude insults. He had done things Joe had never heard of at all. And it would all have been absolutely horrifying, if all of it hadn't felt so good, if both of them hadn't been _right there_ , whispering his name....

Joe realized he was blushing, and groped for a topic of conversation that didn't involve the three hours or more he'd spent moaning in ecstasy. "Listen, old man. Even you need to sleep."

"I slept," Methos said cheerfully. 

"What, three hours? Four?"

"You know this tendency to chop time into little bits and count them is a passing fad. Mark my words, it won't last much longer." He dropped the last silverware into the dishwasher and closed the door. "I suppose there's no chance you have any decent tea?"

Joe waved at a cabinet. "Green tea. Duncan was drinking it in the mornings. Why do you make this so difficult? I mean, is it just a habit, or do you really not trust me?"

Methos froze with the canister half open. "Not _trust_ you? The last Watcher who knew my face was five hundred years back." He frowned. "Or six?" He sniffed the tea and nodded. "This will do."

"I didn't mean that. I _meant_...." What had he meant?

Methos filled the kettle and set it on the stove. "It's all right. I know what you meant." He was rooting through cabinets now. "Was it love at first sight?"

"What?" Was lack of sleep making him particularly thick, or was this conversation really this weird?

"MacLeod. You. When did you fall in love with him?"

"Oh, that. I don't know."

"What, you didn't notice?" he paused in his rummaging to glance over his shoulder.

"No, actually, I didn't."

From an upper shelf Joe never used, Methos produced a mortar and pestle. It looked kind of familiar. Maybe it had been a gift. "How did you not notice?" He took the mortar and pestle to the table and began to grind up a handful of the tea.

Joe joined him, resting his elbows on the table and trying not to look too sleepy. "Well, it was like this. At some point around 1985--1984? he and Tessa had been living in the antique store for a couple of years--it kind of jumped out at me." 

"That must have been quite a surprise."

"You have no idea. In those days, he'd go jogging four times a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, come rain or shine. And _early_ , before sunup sometimes." Joe sighed. "It was usually in the same park, so I'd dress up like a bird watcher--hat, book, loud pants, the works--"

"Complete with binoculars."

"Got it in one. Anyway, I'd wait at the top of the hill and wait for him to pass on the trail below me. One morning it was cold and drizzling and just miserable. And he was a little late, and I had water running down my back....And finally, finally he came around that curve and he looked just....marvelous. All wet. And strong. And-- Anyway, I remember thinking, 'I don't care how beautiful he is, some days this is just not worth it.' And then I thought, 'except it is.'"

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I spent a couple of days trying to convince myself I was just obsessed with my assignment. It happens. And then I spent another day telling myself it was just because he was such...that he was so perfect and charming and _moral_ , when so many of you aren’t--no offence."

"None taken."

"And then I tried to tell myself it was just aesthetic appreciation. I mean, you know."

"Oh, yes."

"But I kept thinking....he wouldn't lie to himself about something like that. In fact, he hadn't. There were records. And if he didn't see anything wrong with it, who the hell was I to get so horrified that I was pretending it wasn't so."

Methos nodded. "And then?"

"And then I started being very careful in my reports. I didn't want my personal feelings coloring the chronicles."

"Ah. I'd wondered what happened. They got very boring after the mid eighties. Lost all the poetry."

Joe laughed. "What, this is a literary review?"

Methos shrugged. "Watchers have always written more than was common for their time. These days, paper is so inexpensive and duplication so easy....people write practically anything. Your early work on Duncan MacLeod was exceptionally well done."

Joe thought about that. "You read chronicles," he said. "When did you first start reading Mac's?"

"Not long ago. World War I."

Not _that_ long ago. "You were a Watcher?"

"When the war started, I was in Europe attending medical school. The war very quickly....let's just say I soon had enough of it."

Joe nodded.

"The Watchers were frantic to get as many of the records out of the war zone as they could. In those days, hardly anything existed in more than five or six copies. Some entire chronicles only existed in one copy...."

"There had been wars before," Joe said tentatively.

"Not like this. One of our depositories in France was burned to the ground in 1914. We lost everything we'd had there. They were determined to get as much out of Europe as they could, but they could not move to the east or the south."

Joe pictured a map of Europe. "That doesn't leave much."

"North to Norway, west to Australia."

"What, by boat? They were sinking boats."

Methos paused in his grinding of tea to shrug. "We made it. Of course, we didn't know if even Australia would be safe for long, so the plan was to copy as much as possible on the way and split the collection when we arrived. I spent the trip copying out chronicles longhand."

"My god.  Traveling by sea wasn't safe."

"Joe, by the time I left Europe, I'd been killed three times. If they'd torpedoed us....there are worse things than drowning. Maybe that was part of what made MacLeod seem so...so...."

"Good."

"Good," he agreed. The low sound of the grinding pestle made a soft counterpoint to his voice. "I was translating his chronicle. One of them, I didn't have them all. He confessed to murder because a friend of his had been framed for it, and the man was going to leave a family behind. It was stupid and short-sighted and hopeless and...."

Joe nodded.

"I'd had friends who'd mentioned him once or twice. I was curious. Altogether, I had about forty years of his chronicle on board. I was furious with myself for reading it. Clearly the man was a fool. It's madness to admire suicidal tendencies...."

"You'd been watching people do such terrible things. How could you not look for something...good?"

"It was twenty years before I read the rest of it. That period during the twenties he spent digging up Amanda and Cory when they'd been killed in the commission of their robberies. The year he spent as a Duchess's gigolo. His involvement in that pointless, nationalist war. I thought seeing some of his foibles I would become less infatuated with my image of him."

"You knew what would happen, if you met him."

"I did not _know_." The water boiled. Methos took it off the heat and then divided the powdered tea into two cups.  "I was not surprised." He sighed. "He expects me to be _wise_ , Joe. He thinks that deep down I'm really very good.  I'm just old. Experience is not wisdom."  He poured the hot water into both cups and with both hands set one in front of Joe. For his part, Joe tried not to look too appalled.

"He asks a lot," Joe admitted gently.

"He is very difficult to walk away from. And in a way, it is so much easier to love mortals."

"Really? I'd think it was harder. What with us all dying and so forth."

Methos flinched slightly, but he mastered himself and said calmly, "It will be terrible to lose you. It is hard to look that truth in the face every day, even for me. But what you forget is that _everyone_ dies. Sometimes Immortals take longer about it, but sooner or later it ends for them, too. With mortals, though, there is no temptation to _hope_."

"Hope?" 

"That this lover will outlive me. That this warmth doesn't have to end. That there will be no grief _this time_. It is so tempting to hope, and if I give in, when I do lose him, it will destroy me." And then Methos actually drank some of the tea. Bright green, unsweetened and thick enough to chew, and he just _drank_ it.

This conversation was too important to let himself get sidetracked by what was obviously simply an anachronistic non sequitur. "Maybe...this time it'll work out. The next loss _could_ be you, not him. Or you both might...."

"If I let myself believe that, even for a little while, it will lead to my undoing."

"So don't hope," he said gently. "Methos, you have to live in the present. You have to be where you are--"

"Are you seriously lecturing me?" He sounded more surprised than annoyed.

"You are _poisoning_ the present. You are making it toxic and then swimming in it. What you are doing right now may by your undoing."

Methos looked down into his cup of, for want of a better word, tea. "He is the best of us, Joe. With my help he might be the last of us. The world could do a lot worse, and Duncan.... But I cannot bear the hope."

Having no clue what to say, Joe reached across the table and took Methos' hand. They sat in silence for long minutes.  He drank some of the tea, because he couldn't be calm enough not to do anything. He managed not to give in to the urge to chew it and tried not to think about what that much caffeine would do to him at this time of night. Morning.

"Zounds! What is that?" Methos said, lifting Joe's cup. "Sorry." He scooped up both cups and poured the thick tea down the sink. "Lost track of time. Just be glad I didn't make it with onions and ginger and butter."

Glad for the change of subject, Joe teased, "So tea used to be soup."

"Pretty much, yeah. Come on, let's go to bed. No doubt MacLeod has something exciting planned for tomorrow."

"Actually, you'll have some time off. We have a civic thing at the community center all afternoon. After which I have to work, but he might be free for dinner."

**MacLeod**

Duncan drifted, half asleep. The part that was awake was debating if he should try to 'help.'  He wanted to help.  He wanted to think he could be of help.  When distressed, though, Methos went to Joe first.  It had been a hit to his pride, when he'd noticed, but now he thought he understood. Methos had been hiding for a long time. He had avoided the few immortal friends he'd had. He'd run from strangers. He'd lived a quiet and harmless life of invisibility. The habits of those long years were hard to give up.  Admitting vulnerabilities to another immortal couldn't be easy for him.

But Joe--it wasn't just that he couldn't use a sword, would never be tempted by any Quickening. His loyalty was an impressive force, and once he'd decided to accept Methos there wouldn't be any going back. It wouldn't ever matter how angry Joe might someday become with him. It wouldn't matter if Methos someday sent Joe away. Duncan had been on both sides of that unshakable loyalty. He had seen the lengths Joe had gone both for Horton and for Cord. And he had seen what Joe was willing to sacrifice for him. Methos would know he was safe.

Duncan had seen something between them the first time they'd come to the barge together. He had felt a jealousy he had not wanted to admit. They'd had so much in common: Watchers, historians. And worse, whatever mystique Duncan himself had as an Immortal, as an icon in Watcher circles, he knew he was small fry compared to The Oldest Immortal in Existence by a Lot. As much as he'd always been unsettled by the truth that before he'd been Joe's friend he'd been his _project_ \--as much as he'd resented it--the first time he saw them together he wondered if he'd become old news. He'd hated that, and been angry with himself for hating it. And--

How would he have felt, if anything in Joe's behavior had changed?

But nothing had changed. If anything, Joe seemed much less impressed by the myth among them than Duncan himself was. There had not been much time to think about it at the time. Kalas....

Twenty minutes. Duncan must have fallen all the way asleep for a bit. There was still no sound from the rest of the house. Maybe Methos just needed a little company. After he brought Alexa back to Paris, he had made excuses to see Duncan, asking for nothing, only not wanting to be alone. Most days he hadn't talked about anything serious. Recipes. Literature. Economics. They might be talking about nothing now.

The lighted numbers on the clock clicked over. It had been over half an hour.  Maybe he should get up, just for solidarity. Ever since Methos had gotten to Seacouver, though, he'd turned glib and snippy when Duncan tried to get too serious. So much of the easy, silent company they'd had before the whole Watcher mess hadn't returned. If Methos was able to have an earnest conversation with Joe--

They snuck into the bedroom like children returning from gambling behind the barn. Methos slipped into bed first, his icy feet brushing along Duncan's calves and nearly making him jump. Methos snuggled close, making room for Joe on his other side. They shushed each other and wiggled and then spooned facing away from Duncan. Methos shoved his bum (cold!) into Duncan's hip and sighed.

Duncan had thought to keep things simple and pretend to be asleep, but he laid the thought aside and turned over so that he could nestle against Methos' long back. Methos shivered slightly and then relaxed in his arms. Slowly, they grew warmer and drifted off to sleep.

End

 


End file.
